"No. It is enough that I know where you have not been," Chiun said.
"Oh? Where have I not been?"
"You have not been seeing Nellie Wilson to arrange for the Assassin Aid Concert. And here I have gone to all the trouble of getting permission from that lunatic, Smith."
"I didn't have time for Willie Nelson, Little Father," said Remo. "I was in a plane crash."
"Paaah." Chiun waved a long-nailed hand over his head in dismissal of such trifles.
"I realized something, Chiun."
"There is always a first time for everything," Chiun said.
"I finally understood what you mean when you say feeding your village is not just a responsibility, but a privilege too." He saw that Chiun was slowly turning around to look at him. Remo said, "I helped save the people on the plane. It was like they were family, my family for a little while, and I think I know how you feel. "
"One cannot equate the survival of my very important village with saving the lives of a bunch of worthless fat white people," Chiun said.
"I know, I know, I know," Remo said. "I know all that. It was just that the idea was the same."
"Well, perhaps you are not so hopeless as I thought," Chiun said and his hazel eyes softened. "Let me see your hands," he said suddenly.
"What for?"
Chiun clapped his hands together. The sound shook a nearby coffee table and rattled a window.
"Your hands, quickly."
Remo extended his hands, palms up. Chiun took them and stared at them. His nose wrinkled.
"Want to check behind my ears too?" Remo asked.
"You have fired no guns recently," Chiun said.
"I have fired no guns in years. You know that," Remo said. "What's with you?"
"You are," said Chiun, turning away. "But not for long. You must return to Folcroft. Emperor Smith has need of your services."
"Why do I get the impression that you're trying to chase me away from here?" Remo said.
"I have no interest in your impressions," Chiun said. "I am here on a personal matter that concerns the Master of Sinanju. Not you. Be gone. Go see Smith. Perhaps he can make use of you."
"Not so's you'd notice," Remo said. "Look . . ." he said, then stopped dead. He saw a streak of red that scored the scalp under the hair over Chiun's left ear. "Hey. You're hurt." He reached forward and Chiun slapped his hand away angrily.
"I cut it shaving," Chiun said.
"You don't shave," Remo said.
"Never mind. It is only a scratch."
"You couldn't be scratched by a rocket attack," Remo said. "What the hell is going on?"
"Nothing. A lunatic gunman. I will be done with him by tomorrow. Then we will speak of other matters. We will make plans for the concert."
"Somebody with a gun did that to you?" Remo said and whistled. "He must have been real good."
"Only his name is good," Chiun said. "Tomorrow he will be dog meat. You return to Folcroft."
"I'm staying," Remo said.
Chiun swept out his hands. His fingernails shredded the heavy damask drapes.
"I don't need you," Chiun said.
"I don't care. I'm staying."
"Then stay out here and leave me alone. I will have nothing to do with you," Chiun said and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
"I'm staying anyway," Remo shouted through the door.
"Stay if you must. But stay out of my way," Chiun said.
Chapter 10
Remo heard the door from the bedroom to the outside hallway open, then close. Chiun was leaving. He went to the door of the suite, listened for a moment, then heard the elevator doors in the middle of the floor open and close.
Chiun was riding downstairs.
Remo ran from the room and into the stairwell, racing down the steps in giant jumps that looked effortless, but which touched only one step between each landing. It was the way a sixty-foot-tall giant would have walked down those steps.
Remo was not moving at top speed since he knew he had plenty of time to get to the lobby before the elevator arrived. Then he would hide there and follow Chiun and see just what was so important that Chiun could not tell him about it.
In the lobby, he sank into a soft wing chair and held a newspaper up in front of his face. Over the top of the newspaper, he could see the elevator's control lights. The elevator was now passing the fourth floor on its way to the lobby.
It reached the lobby; the door opened. The elevator was empty.
Where the hell was Chiun? Remo stood up and looked around. He found Chiun sitting in a wing chair directly behind his.
"Sit down, you imbecile," Chiun said. "You are drawing attention to yourself, acting like a man looking for a lost dog."
Remo grinned in embarrassment. "I heard you leave the room," he said.
"I heard you following me," Chiun said.
"I came down the steps to get here before the elevator," Remo said.
"So did I," Chiun said.
"So now what do we do?" Remo asked. "Do we play hide-and-go-seek all over Detroit?"
"No," Chiun said. "You go back to the room. Or go see Emperor Smith in Folcroft. Or go find Nellie Wilson and convince him to sing for our concert. Any would be acceptable. "
"And you?" Remo asked.
"I have business which does not concern you," Chiun said.
"Not a chance," Remo said. "You move from here and I'm going to be on your tail like burrs on a beagle."
Chiun brought his chair around and sat down next to Remo. His hazel eyes were sincere and thoughtful as he said, "Remo, there are some things you do not understand."
"That's true enough," Remo said, "but I always count on you to explain them to me. You're my teacher and I trust you."
"Then you must also trust that I have your best interests at heart when I tell you that you are not yet ready to learn something. "
"I don't buy that," Remo said. "What am I not ready to learn?"
"Many things. The proper greetings for Persian emperors. The things one must not say to a pharaoh. The proper method of negotiating a contract. Many of the legends and their deeper meanings. Many things."
"You're not trying to dodge me because I don't know how to say hello to a Persian emperor," Remo said. "This is something that concerns me and I want to know what it is. "
"You are a willful stubborn child," Chiun said angrily.
"Just so that we both understand it," Remo said.
Chiun sighed. "You may follow me. But ask no ques tions. And stay out of my way."
In the huge parking lot of Dynacar Industries, just off the Edsel Ford Parkway in Detroit, workmen were scrambling around tying a green ribbon around a package.
If it were not for the fact that the package was six feet high, six feet wide, and fifteen feet long, it would have looked like a wedding gift, even to the elegant silverywhite wrapping paper it was covered with.
Two dozen reporters and cameramen had already showed up, fifteen minutes before the scheduled press conference of Lyle Lavallette, and they milled around the big package, trying to see what it contained.
"It's a car. What do you expect? Lavallette didn't call us here to show us some goddamn refrigerator."
"Hey, listen. He got shot a few days ago and then Mangan got killed last night. For all you know, there may be a goddamn hit squad under that ribbon and they're going to blow us all away."
"I hope they start with you," the first reporter said. "It may be a car but it sure as hell stinks."
"I thought I was the only one who noticed that," another reporter said. "Maybe it's these workmen."
"What's that you said, asshole?" snarled one of the workmen. There were four of them, lying on their stomachs, clutching measuring tapes and trying to arrange the foot-wide green ribbon atop the package into a perfect floral-style bow.
"Nothing," said the reporter nervously. "I didn't say anything."
"We can smell it too," the workman said. "And we don't like it any better than you."